The
moon
The
moon is like a lover with a kiss
to
whom the night belongs
for
in the day the moon fades,
forgotten
away
supplanted
by a tide of details.
A twenty-eight
day cycle
a
feminine incline
at
night I look to that moonshine
reluctant
by an hour
to
be the same again.
Ian
Lonergan
Sweet rain
How like a poem is the rain
that tumbles from a rumbled plane
and hurled obliquely to the ground
as a poet's pen in a poet's hand
inspired and set to writing
with an ink of splashes upon a reasoned field.
How the rain brings the outside in
with a wave of recognition
as the sounds of trees, and path, and roof, and all
are heard pittering in the wet.
One word,
one drop,
a pattern in the patter of the matter of life
'til the intellectual intrigue of a distant poet's
notes
fades reciprocal to a resonance
as a voice lucid and clear and at once familiar
speaks as a guide within a view
sharing despair, and joy, and transcendence
as the sound of welcome rain.
Bubbling puddles,
a consequence of raining
merge into an overflow
to run leads or trickling trails
through the circumstance of life
which cascades, and falls with the gravity of it all
as a dedicated cycle to a celebrated sea.
No poem, no poet, sweet rain!